


R-enjol-ution

by truethingsproved



Series: Talk revolution to me, baby. [7]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, also implies/outright states police brutality, includes speeches discussing the death penalty and violence and murder, just some blood and bruises, no graphic descriptions of violence, revolutionizing!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing in the center of this crowd, Enjolras looks glorious, too beautiful for this earth, and for a brief, shining moment Combeferre feels as though he’s just ripped his own heart out to put in his best friend’s hands. From the enraptured stares on the other protestors’ faces, he can tell he’s not the only one. Enjolras is single-minded and fierce, proud and unbroken. It’s an honor to hear him speaking like this; he seems to be on fire, as if he’s glowing under his skin, and for the first time Combeferre understands why Grantaire calls him Apollo.</p><p>He’s a god, an avenging angel, and every last person here, even the cops, wants him to keep screaming for justice and to never stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R-enjol-ution

When Eponine mentions that she loves James Bond films Combeferre does what he always does and files it away, carefully, in the back of his mind. They’re a bit preoccupied—she’d arrived at the door to his apartment with next to no warning and simply knocked until he opened the door before grabbing his hand and dragging him to the roof of the building, where they’d laid back and stared up at the stars. Of all the things Combeferre knows, astronomy isn’t one of them, so he makes it up; it’s a warm night for March, and at one point Eponine takes her shirt off and turns so he can see the light freckles across her back, which he traces carefully and relates to the stars.

They’ve been together a few weeks now and winter is thawing into spring with all of the best indications—the air smells like new life bursting out of the earth and the sun graces them with its presence long enough that he’s starting to remember what it feels like to be warm. He can’t justify turning the heat on when he’s got sweaters, and so when the days get shorter and colder he simply layers. (It would make Marius furious, except that he tends to spend almost all of his time with Cosette anyway.)

But even when Eponine smiles at him so brilliantly he actually stops breathing for a moment, even when she flicks the frame of his glasses before pressing into him and kissing him with all her might, he remembers the things she loves, the things she wants, so that when she comes a few days later he’s learned the theme on his cello (which she loves to watch him play), and he’s got a small stack of used DVDs. They climb into his bed and wrap themselves in a million blankets and have a marathon that they stop paying attention to a few hours in because her hands are warm against his skin.

The point is, Combeferre is dependable, in all the ways that matter, because he’s dependable even when it’s not strictly a big deal. He’s dependable when he needs to keep an eye on Enjolras and keep him out of trouble, and he’s dependable when Grantaire needs someone to hold his hair back when he’s sick, and he’s dependable when his girlfriend mentions how much she loves some ridiculous film franchise he never really got into.

Everyone expects it of him. They all have roles in their little group. Enjolras is their fearless leader, their chief, their general and their ruler, and every last one of them would follow him to their deaths or, less dramatically and like a nineteenth-century novel, a jail cell. Courfeyrac is their light and their center, the heart that keeps the blood pumping and the group warm. Courfeyrac always has a smile ready, a joke to share, something, _anything_ , to remind the others that there’s good to be found in whatever dark times they encounter. And if Enjolras is the head and Courfeyrac is the heart, Combeferre is the guide, the skeleton, the shield, the one who keeps everyone protected and safe and moving.

It’s because of him, then, that they do end up going to that rally in the city, because Combeferre is the one who arrives at Enjolras’ apartment that morning and pries him out of bed and reminds him that _this is what you were made for. This is what Dr. Lamarque wanted you to do._

He’s knocking on Grantaire’s door, prepared to have to do the same for him, when Grantaire opens the door, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with the bruising darkness of exhaustion, fully dressed with a cup of coffee in his hands. “You look like shit,” Combeferre says frankly, and Grantaire laughs, though the sound is weak and tired and frankly kind of furious.

“I’m regrettably sober,” he informs his friend, stepping aside to let him in. “I don’t trust Enjolras to have his head on straight today. He’s exhausted, he’s grieving, and he’s fucking furious. Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.”

“You all usually expect me to do that,” Combeferre says wryly, and Grantaire shrugs.

“You’ve got Eponine now and she’s going to be your top priority. I dig it, by the way. She’s gorgeous and smart and fun and she needs someone reliable in her life and you’re pretty much perfect for her.” Grantaire downs the rest of his coffee, making a face at the bitterness before pouring himself another cup and then a second for Combeferre. “I’m not leaving him to do this alone. Courf will look after Jehan. Marius will look after Cosette. Well, no, Cosette will look after Marius. My point is, everyone’s kind of paired up and someone needs to have an eye on him first and foremost.”

Combeferre nods knowingly, even fondly, and is about to drink his coffee when Mary Kate barrels into the kitchen and takes a running leap at Grantaire, throwing her arms around his neck. She’s dressed as well, wearing a too-big leather jacket and with her hair tied back. “Are you coming with us?” he asks, and she grins.

“Duh. Like I’d miss this for anything except maybe Tudors reruns,” she replies, releasing her brother to place a fat, sloppy kiss on Combeferre’s cheek. “Come on, boys, let’s get moving. The earth ain’t gonna free herself.”

\------

 **Enjolras:** Hey, I’m wiped out. I probably shouldn’t be driving today. How reliable is Mary Kate behind the wheel?

 **Grantaire:** ha

 **Grantaire:** ha ha

 **Grantaire:** ha ha

 **Grantaire:** ha

 **Grantaire:** ha

 **Grantaire:** ha

 **Grantaire:** NO

 **Enjolras:** I imagine her particularly violent behind the wheel of a two-ton steel death machine.

 **Grantaire:** i would say ur exaggerating but thats pretty much exactly how mk views cars

\------

They take four cars. Combeferre drives Eponine, Cosette, and Marius; Grantaire drives Enjolras, Bahorel, and Mary Kate; Musichetta takes Joly and Bossuet, and Feuilly drives Courfeyrac and Jehan. They follow one another; the drive is maybe an hour, tops, and Enjolras is stony-faced the whole drive up, reading through a stack of papers in his lap and attempting to snap at Mary Kate, who doesn’t seem very interested in his anger but far more interested in the way he scowls when she pulls his hair.

They drive up in relative silence. Bahorel and Mary Kate are texting frantically about Game of Thrones, because Grantaire’s still only on season one and doesn’t want spoilers, and Enjolras only occasionally talks, but he’s got a fire in his eyes that makes Grantaire want to melt.

Their eyes meet once and then Enjolras is looking back at the papers he’s holding, but his fingers brush against Grantaire’s when they both reach for their coffees in the cup holders and Enjolras lets his touch linger a bit longer than usual. Grantaire just hopes he can’t hear how erratic his heart beat is.

\------

“The death penalty is _murder_!”

Somehow this entire rally seems to have become the Enjolras show, and Combeferre’s not even a little bit surprised. Eponine has her arm around his waist, her other pumped up in the air while she screams in agreement, her voice mixing with Combeferre’s. Cosette and Courfeyrac are standing on either side of Enjolras, handing out flyers and answering questions, while Marius and Jehan stand with their shoulders pressed together. It’s never easy to see the person you love most in the fray. Combeferre wonders how any of them can stand it. Bossuet and Musichetta are flanking Joly (and Musichetta’s never looked more terrifying, her eyes ablaze and her hair down around her face and her lips parted in some kind of mesmerizing chant), and Bahorel stands behind Musichetta and Mary Kate. Grantaire’s positioned himself halfway between his sister and his leader, and is looking between the two carefully. He hasn’t said a word the whole time. He’s keeping his eye on the police officers surrounding the crowd, making sure he’s not missing a thing.

Standing in the center of this crowd, Enjolras looks glorious, too beautiful for this earth, and for a brief, shining moment Combeferre feels as though he’s just ripped his own heart out to put in his best friend’s hands. From the enraptured stares on the other protestors’ faces, he can tell he’s not the only one. Enjolras is single-minded and fierce, proud and unbroken. It’s an honor to hear him speaking like this; he seems to be on fire, as if he’s glowing under his skin, and for the first time Combeferre understands why Grantaire calls him Apollo.

He’s a god, an avenging angel, and every last person here, even the cops, wants him to keep screaming for justice and to never stop.

“The death penalty is _prohibited_ by international law. No governing body has the right to claim our lives!” There’s a shout of agreement, and Enjolras thrusts his hand up in the air, holding one of the flyers. It’s one of Grantaire’s designs and features the faces of the political prisoners executed since 1976 as if in a bar code. “What man-made institution has the right to _take_ our lives? They’ve already taken our liberty.” There are more shouts and Combeferre realizes that even though he’s heard Enjolras like this a thousand times, he’s shouting too.

“They will tell you that to keep the peace they must enforce the law and that this must come at the cost of our freedom. Our _lives._ Every last one of us is a parent or a child. A lover. A friend. A sibling. Family. Liberty is fed not by our fear or silence and yet here we are, standing quiet and afraid. _We need to scream._ We need to be heard. We will _not_ be silenced when we watch the very veins of this institution running red with the blood of our kin, because tyranny is fed by that silence and fear and blood. Liberty comes at a great price. She is a leviathan; she must be awoken and we must steel ourselves against the fury of those who would have her sleep remain uninterrupted. Will you stand with me?” There’s a great roar of agreement and Combeferre and Eponine have raised their joined hands now, screaming along with them. Mary Kate and Musichetta are the loudest voices in the crowd, discernible even over the din.

Musichetta shouts something loud enough that the crowd quiets to hear her. “We’ve been taught our whole lives to keep our heads down out of fear of conflict and to call it ‘good manners’. We’ve been urged to silence anyone who would dare speak out against what’s wrong. We’ve been afraid for too long!” Enjolras is looking at her in awe and maybe a little bit of love. “Fuck the status quo, fuck the norm, fuck the ones beating us down. Fuck the _murderers_ claiming to be protectors. Where are they when women are assaulted and battered day in, day out, for daring to walk the streets? When we’re racially profiled and locked away for daring to exist? When my sisters are slaughtered for daring to live as they are and defy your preconceived notions of gender? Killed for daring to love? They don’t _give a shit_ because it’s easy to look the other way when it’s us getting crushed. Stop _letting_ them look away!”

The protestors all scream and cheer and suddenly Combeferre sees Grantaire’s eyes widen in panic as he practically dives for Mary Kate, immediately grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into his chest, covering her head. Time slows as he watches Mary Kate’s eyes meet her brother’s in fear, the reassuring way he shields her, because she’s fierce and powerful but still young and easy to bruise if not easy to break. He takes one look at Bahorel and shoves his sister into his grasp—if it comes to a fight, Bahorel’s got a better chance of winning than Grantaire ever will.

Then the police are moving towards them and Enjolras is screaming at them and Combeferre and Eponine are pushing through the crowd to get to them and Courfeyrac is sprinting for Jehan and it’s something of a blur, to be quite honest, but within the hour Cosette’s punched a cop in the face and bolted, Bahorel and Feuilly have safely gotten Jehan, Courfeyrac, Mary Kate, and Marius out of the fray, Bossuet’s covered Joly and pressed him to a nearby wall in equal parts to shield him from blows that don’t come and to keep him from running after Musichetta

who ends up on the ground, proudly glaring up at the police who have her hands zip tied behind her back, next to Combeferre and Enjolras.

\------

 **Grantaire:** mk where the fuck r u tell me ur safe

 **Mary Kate:** I’m fine. At a café with most of the rest of the gang. Where are you?????

 **Grantaire:** who’s there with u?

 **Mary Kate:** Eponine, Cosette, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Marius, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Feuilly.

 **Grantaire:** i’m gonna find the others then come find u. send me an address.

 **Grantaire:** shit i see chetta and combeferre

 **Grantaire:** ferre’s kinda banged up

 **Grantaire:** we’re on our way

\------

When they all reach the café—which turns out to be a Starbucks, so Grantaire is momentarily glad for Enjolras’ absence—Eponine instantly wraps her arms around Combeferre and kisses him so fiercely they all look away in embarrassment. His glasses are broken and abandoned somewhere—someone else will have to drive home—and he’s got a bruise blooming on his cheek from when he’d gotten elbowed in the face trying to shove someone away from Musichetta, who is, shockingly, untouched.

Joly and Bossuet fall on her immediately, and she spends the next ten minutes sitting quietly while her boys kiss her and dote on her and beg her to never ever _ever_ get caught by cops again. The only mark on her is the irritation from the too-tight zip ties, which she’d learned how to escape in her freshman year of college. Mary Kate and Grantaire become something of a singular being, hugging so tightly that Grantaire’s pretty sure his seventeen-year-old sister has broken one of his ribs; this suspicion practically doubles when Cosette hugs them both.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again,” Eponine whispers, and Combeferre nods, taking her face in both hands and kissing her quite literally until she’s dizzy before tucking his face into her shoulder and breathing in deeply.

“They let us go because we weren’t the ones ‘stirring up trouble’,” Musichetta explains once everyone quiets down, “but they took Enjolras in. He’s got his lawyer’s number on him and it’s his first offense so I mean, they’ll probably let him go, but they brought him back to the station.”

No one notices that Grantaire untangles himself from Mary Kate and kisses her forehead before muttering something to Cosette, who just nods and hugs him again, looking relieved.

Jehan just shrugs. “It’s not like we didn’t expect this, ’Chetta. It’s _Enjolras_.”

This warrants murmurs of agreement, and Comeferre spends the next forty seconds trying to shush everyone enough to ask, “So who’s going to go get him? We should look into bailing him out or getting a lawyer up here or whatever.”

Everyone pauses to look at one another. Courfeyrac and Jehan haven’t moved from where they’re curled up together in an armchair since arriving, and Jehan looks shaken despite his calm tone of voice. Bahorel looks ready to say something when Mary Kate says, “I think my brother’s on it.”

They all turn to stare at the empty space where Grantaire had been standing. For a moment they consider sending someone after him to tag along, make sure he behaves, but the glare that Cosette gives them is truly terrifying.

“Let’s be realistic,” she says. “Of all the things Grantaire will do, putting Enjolras at risk isn’t one of them.”

\------

 **Mary Kate:** Be careful, okay?

 **Grantaire:** i’m not leaving him in there

 **Mary Kate:** I know. Just be careful. You haven’t had anything to drink today so you’re not totally steady. I need you to promise me you’re going to be careful.

 **Grantaire:** promise

 **Mary Kate:** I love you.

 **Grantaire:** love you back little sis

\------

The police station is small and dirty and looks like something out of a bad action movie. Enjolras is sitting on a bench, silent and unmoving.

And bloody.

There’s the beginnings of a bruise on his cheek and eye, and there’s dried blood crusted under and around his nose and mouth, and even so he manages to look dignified, a fucking Bernini sculpture sitting in a filthy police department.

His eyes widen fractionally when he sees Grantaire but he keeps his composure, even when Grantaire reaches out with hands that are shaking from anger and not from drink. He takes Enjolras’ chin in his hand and tips it up until Enjolras is looking him in the eye; his other hand comes up to brush trembling fingers lightly across the bruises and the blood. For a moment, Grantaire wants to lick him clean. He looks more glorious than ever. This, Grantaire realizes, is what his Apollo was made for.

“Who touched you?” he demands in a voice so low it’s almost inaudible. Enjolras shakes his head, and Grantaire simply repeats himself, slower, before asking, “Was it a cop?”

“R, let it go.”

“I’ll fucking kill them, I swear.”

“Grantaire.” Pale hands come up to curl around Grantaire’s wrists before sliding up, long and graceful fingers interlocking almost fiercely with rougher ones stained with ink. They stay like this for a moment before Grantaire nods and sighs; Enjolras looks relieved, and turns to brush his nose against the fragile bones of Grantaire’s wrist.

They both turn to look at the police officers, one of whom is an older man who reminds Grantaire of Dr. Lamarque, almost. He explains that since Enjolras doesn’t have any priors, and wasn’t violent, he’s free to go; the rally had been entirely legal, even if it was starting to get out of hand, so legally, there’s nothing they can do. Grantaire opens his mouth to snarl that he hadn’t seen Enjolras this roughed up before the cops had arrived but Enjolras looks exhausted and squeezes Grantaire’s hands, so he relents and says he’ll take care of the paperwork to get Enjolras out.

How anyone can be that fucking beautiful with blood crusted under their nose is completely and utterly beyond Grantaire, but he’ll ponder it later when he’s not practically shaking with fury that someone dared touch him. Enjolras waits for him at the door, and the artist’s hand floats protectively near the small of Enjolras’ back as if to guide or support him, but really, he just wants to be closer to him and to guarantee that he’s still completely whole. As soon as they’re outside, Grantaire hails a cab to get to where they’d parked. Enjolras turns to the other man, completely calm, and simply watches him for a moment before speaking.

“Thank you. I’d assumed Eponine would come, but I’m glad it wasn’t her.”

“You don’t want her seeing you in a police station?” Grantaire supplies, feeling oddly hurt, and Enjolras laughs quietly. It’s a gentle sound. When he’s not on the job as a part time archangel or something, he’s almost approachable.

“No, I don’t care about that. I’m glad it was you.”

“Yeah. I’m in no position to judge anybody,” Grantaire snorts humorlessly, and Enjolras just frowns.

“I really don’t care about that, R. I just wanted to see you.”

“You didn’t have to get yourself arrested.” Grantaire’s joking barely feels like joking at this point, and he swallows hard, forcing himself not to notice the way Enjolras’ eyes follow his Adam’s apple.

He hasn’t had enough to drink but he knows that Enjolras wouldn’t trust him to help if he wasn’t as sober as he could handle being.

“I want to know who hit you,” he says after a moment, when Enjolras doesn’t respond, and Enjolras scoffs.

“Who do you think? They’re a fucking joke. Protectors of the people my ass. They were just waiting for me to do something more than mouth off and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, so the new guy on the force got a little excited. Kept him distracted from Combeferre and Musichetta. Are they--”

“I’ll fucking kill him. I really will. They’re alright.”

Grantaire’s expecting some kind of rant about nonviolence as long as necessary or whatever else Enjolras has been learning during his international phone conferences with the London offices and fucking protestors and response teams that are actually in the field, but instead, the corner of Enjolras’ mouth quirks up in a soft sort of smile.

“You’ve got to be more careful, Apollo. I know this is important to you. Just, be careful.” Grantaire’s voice is shaking a bit, and his fingers skate across the bruise again. Enjolras doesn’t move; when Grantaire brushes his thumb across the dried blood, Enjolras actually manages to nuzzle his thumb, and Grantaire wonders if maybe he’s been spending too much time with Cat.

“Has everyone started to head home yet?” he asks, ignoring Grantaire’s concern, but not moving away from the fingers still on his face.

Grantaire does withdraw his hand, though, and he clears his throat. “Yeah. I think so. I told Cosette to get everyone headed back.” He pauses, then asks, “Do you want to go to your place or mine? You’re not going to get a second of silence at your place.” He adds this last bit almost hopefully; he knows that they’ll all congregate there and that Enjolras, who looks exhausted under all his glorious little smiles and laughs, won’t kick them out so he can rest.

“Yours would be nice. I’d like a few minutes of quiet. I’ll text Eponine and let her know that we’re alright.” Grantaire spares a moment to watch Enjolras pull his phone out of the pockets of his jeans, which look painted on and are frankly unfair, before looking out the window.

It’s only when they arrive at the parking garage where they’d been just a few hours ago, laughing and getting excited, that it hits him.

Enjolras had wanted to see him.

The drive home is long, and Enjolras is so tired that he falls asleep, the beginning moonlight casting him in a light so silvery-white that Grantaire seriously wonders if he’s looking at someone human. They arrive at Grantaire’s apartment building in silence and Grantaire walks close, too close, as if to make sure that Enjolras really is alright, but today Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind.

———

As soon as they’re inside Enjolras heads to the bathroom and Grantaire makes his way to the refrigerator, pulling out a couple of beers and setting them down on the counter. He’s halfway done with his first when Enjolras comes out of the bathroom, his teeth freshly brushed (Grantaire wonders whose toothbrush he used before seeing a bit of toothpaste left over on his finger) and the blood cleaned up from under his nose and mouth.

Wordlessly, Grantaire holds the second bottle out for him, and Enjolras hesitates for only a moment before taking it. They drink in silence, Grantaire practically drinking his presence in with a strange sort of hunger. “Why’d you want to see me?” he asks finally, before his courage can fail him.

Enjolras just shrugs, tipping the bottle back again and taking another sip. After a moment he answers, “I don’t know. I just did. It felt kind of strange, to be honest. I kept looking over at the bench next to me expecting you to just be there.” He takes a sharp breath in, then says, almost as if confessing, “I kept trying to summon up some voice of reason to keep me from provoking an officer again and yours was the only one I could really hold on to. I don’t know why.”

“If I’m your definitive voice of reason, you really need to get your shit together, Apollo,” Grantaire snorts, and he moves to get another beer, but Enjolras is resting his hand on Grantaire’s arm and watching him and so he stops moving. “What?”

“I’m not a very good friend to you,” he says quietly. “I never have been. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. I’d try anyone’s patience.”

“I haven’t treated you like I should a friend and yes, there is something to forgive. I needed someone and you were there. I won’t forget that.”

Grantaire snorts with laughter. “I’m always there, Apollo. This is nothing new.”

“I know. I always see it. I just never thank you for it, and I should.”

This is promising to get long. Grantaire kind of wants to just shut him up because he knows, he just _knows_ , that he’s going to say something he’ll regret.

But then Enjolras is smiling again and his tongue slides over his lower lip, probably without him realizing what he’s doing, and the second beer is forgotten as Grantaire coughs and stares down at his hands.

This isn’t fair.

He’s been so _good_ about it. He’s been trying to watch Enjolras less, trying to touch him less (though it’s been difficult, as Enjolras is naturally incredibly tactile, and sometimes Grantaire’s hands are pulled towards whatever bare skin they can find out of some sort of impossible magnetism).

“There’s seriously nothing to thank me for,” Grantaire insists, practically mumbling. “It’s just what I do.” Then, suddenly, without his permission, a few more words slip out. “I’ll be doing it until I follow you to an early grave, or until you seriously don’t want me around.”

This surprises Enjolras. “What do you mean?”

“Forget it.” Grantaire gets another beer and opens it and is about to start drinking when Enjolras’ persistent hands take hold of the neck of the bottle and pull it away from him.

“I’d really rather not.”

“After everything I’m willing to give you, Apollo, let me keep my dignity, won’t you? There’s not very much left but I’m fond of what I do have.” Grantaire’s cheeks are burning and his throat feels closed off; this is wrong, he was wrong, he should have shut up.

He reaches for his beer again but Enjolras just catches his hand. “Talk to me,” he’s urging, and Grantaire can’t look at him.

He has to swallow twice before he can speak, and when he does, his eyes are burning and he feels as though he might outright cry from frustration and embarrassment and the knowledge sinking into the pit of his stomach that he’s just blown it. Everything. He’ll be lucky if Enjolras even looks at him again.

He’s always known this would never work out but unrequited love is better when you can at least daydream about it someday coming to fruition in an alternate universe where you’re not a raging alcoholic and he’s not too in love with his cause to acknowledge you.

“If you really don’t know, just leave it at that, Apollo, please.” His voice cracks a little and Grantaire shakes his head, still keeping his eyes on everything but Enjolras. “I don’t ask you for much.”

And so he does.

Enjolras just shrugs and nods, clearly unhappy but accepting it, and that’s almost more than Grantaire can handle and he feels like his ribcage too small to fit his organs inside and his hands are shaking again and and and

suddenly he’s the one reaching out and taking Enjolras’ arm, and his chest feels constricted thinking that he might walk away. _I’ve been in love with you since freshman year when I met you in Lamarque’s class and the only reason I can think of anything good about this place is you and if I lose you now I don’t know how I’ll handle it but I will. I always do._

He looks at Enjolras questioningly before pulling his hand back and Enjolras just nods, as if to say do what you must, and then his fingers are tangled around soft curls the color of the last leaves in autumn and he’s breathing in as deeply as he can because he knows this is probably the last time he’ll ever be around Enjolras, because what kind of person would actually want him, drunk and angry and alone?

Except Enjolras’ hands are curling around Grantaire’s sides and he’s fitting his fingers between Grantaire’s ribs, pressing down as hard as he can and pulling Grantaire closer haphazardly. Grantaire moves to pull back and Enjolras follows the motion before realizing that Grantaire means to break the kiss; neither man loosens their hold on the other, and Enjolras runs a tongue across kiss-reddened lips.

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls Grantaire back into him and presses close until every inch of him is aligned with Grantaire, hips matched to hips, tongues flickering against lips and teeth, and Grantaire is sure that Enjolras’ hands are going to leave him with bruises but he doesn’t care. This is Enjolras, body and blood, and he’s standing in his kitchen kissing Grantaire so desperately that he’s almost sure one of them is going to pass out if this keeps up.

Neither man tries to hide his growing erection, though they don’t do anything about it; instead, Enjolras pulls away this time, breathing heavily.

“I see you,” he promises, slicking his tongue out against Grantaire’s lips, and it’s not _I love you_ , it’s not _I want you_ , but it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW YOU ARE ALL GREAT AND I LOVE YOU TO BITS
> 
> -awesome art GO LOOK: http://tazioparrish.tumblr.com/post/42737168404/inspired-by-the-awesome-talk-revolution-to-me  
> -furthermore guess what fic is getting podficc'ed  
> -spoiler alert: THIS ONE  
> -I'm so excited I could scream  
> -(I have screamed already)  
> -ARE YOU HAPPY I GAVE YOU KISSING  
> -hugely helped by tumblr user tazioparrish, whose prompt helped me make the kiss so much better  
> -I'm duskjolras on Tumblr and track the duskjolras tag, as well as the talk revolution to me baby tag, and am p. much always accepting prompts, so if you want to drop by and say hi/make art/write fics/leave prompts, I'd love that. c:  
> -also all my TRTMB drabbles are tagged 'trtmb drabbles' and I've been getting some amazing prompts lately so I'm hoping they're decent but check 'em out c:  
> -also SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG
> 
> thank you I love you best xoxoxoxoxo


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